


Whumptober 2020

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drabble Collection, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stabbing, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: I wrote a 100-word drabble a day for Whumptober 2020, all of them connecting into one story. This is the finished piece.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	Whumptober 2020

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a 100-word drabble a day for Whumptober 2020, all of them connecting into one story. This is the finished piece.

Harry grabs at his side and the deep-seated pain there. Fingers sticky with blood, he presses against the wound and takes another step forward. The thief had caught Harry off-guard, unsteady after a few too many pints at the local, and at first, Harry thought he’d only been punched in the side. But then the blood oozed out past his fingers, the world grew dark and grey around the edges, and Harry knew that he needed to get to safety and fast. But as he stumbles again, knees digging into the cobbles, he thinks safety is much too far away.

His hands are coated with blood, and the brick wall is sharp and hard against his back. Harry doesn’t know when he fell, or how he crawled out of the street to lay against the closest building. All he knows is that he’s cold, even his blood. His fingers stick together where it congeals. He doesn’t have the strength to hold it back anymore, but it doesn’t matter, the flow more a trickle than a stream. Blinking away grey stars, Harry wishes he had a chance to say goodbye. It’s his only clear thought before he passes into unconscious peace.

* * *

Eyes dry and aching, Draco stares up at his ceiling. It isn’t the first night he’s stayed up like this, unable to fall asleep no matter how much Dreamless Sleep he takes. Restless and uncomfortable with exhaustion, Draco rolls out of bed and gets dressed. A walk in the night will ease his mind and weary his body, and hopefully, finally, he’ll be able to find some peace.

The night air is crisp and sharp. He breathes it in deeply, then stills at the taste of copper. Blood. It’s been years since he’s tasted it, but he knows it anyway.

When he left his apartment for a nighttime stroll, the last thing Draco expected to find was a nearly unconscious Harry Potter, covered in blood and lying against an alleyway wall. But, like many things in his life, Draco’s learned that the last thing is usually what happens when you least expect it.

He crouches down, watching for the rise and fall of Potter’s chest carefully.

“Hey,” Draco says loudly while shaking Potter’s shoulder, “are you still with me?”

“No,” Potter moans, “stop. Hurts.”

“Let’s get you up,” Draco says, getting his arms around Potter’s waist, unconcerned about the blood.

Though Draco tries to get Potter’s address out of him, the man’s too weak and addled from blood loss to really be of much use. Giving up on the prospect of keeping his floors clean, Draco takes Potter back to his flat. It’s a struggle getting the door open, but Draco somehow manages it with Potter’s limp weight against him.

After laying Potter on the couch–the fabric ruined by red–Draco wonders how this impromptu rescue will come back to bite him in the arse. After all, Draco’s poisoned Potter against him after decades long animosity. Potter will hardly expect care now.

* * *

Though Harry tries, his arms and legs don’t want to move the way he wants them to. Everything feels heavy and slow, like his limbs are wrapped in lead. Even his eyes move sluggishly as he looks around the room.

The world spins as he does so, but he can make out dim lights and white walls. There’s someone standing opposite him. They’re backlit, and all Harry can make out is their silhouette in the doorway. Fear grows in his chest, his unsteady heart doing its best to race, but though he wants to run, he’s betrayed by his body.

Harry doesn’t know where he is. Even with his head muzzy from blood loss and shock, he still worries about kidnapping. The Boy Who Lived is still a prize to the few dark wizards who slipped through the Ministry’s grasp during the hectic days after the War, and it wouldn’t be the first time that an attempt was made.

It would just be the first to succeed.

Groaning, he rolls and lands on the the floor. His wound sends a lance of pain through him, but he ignores it before struggling to his feet.

“Potter,” a familiar voice says.

“Malfoy.”

A moment later, Harry collapses back onto the couch, his legs too weak to keep him standing. Malfoy takes a careful step closer, hand out like Harry’s a wild creature that needs to be calmed.

“Take it easy, Potter. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and I haven’t gotten a Replenisher into you yet.”

“What’d you do to me?”

“Nothing other than drag you inside from the cold. Lie down, you idiot.” Moving quickly enough that Harry’s unfocused eyes make him blur, Malfoy presses his hand to Harry’s forehead. “You’re burning up. I should take you to St Mungo’s.”

“No.”

Harry falls back onto the couch, his legs unsteady like he’s standing on the deck of a ship on a rough sea. The room spins. The couch bounces slightly when he falls back onto it.

“Merlin, stay there, Potter. You’re bleeding again.”

Malfoy’s wand motions are quick and efficient, and there’s a bright flash along Harry’s side as it starts to knit together. He can feel it deep inside, the pain stranded there until it fades to nothing.

“That’s better. Now, lie down.”

Exhausted and finally giving into gravity, Harry lays down, eyes finally closing.

“What happened to you anyway?”

“I was attacked.”

“And here I thought you spontaneously generated a grievous wound.”

If Harry had the energy, he’d tell Malfoy off. But he’s too tired for it now, so he just groans softly. “Fuck off, Malfoy.” Harry brushes his fingers against his wound, wincing at the bruises that are still fading from Malfoy’s healing magic. “I don’t know what happened. Someone jumped me, they had a knife.”

“Wonderful. And you didn’t call the authorities because?”

“Because I was bleeding out in an alley.”

“And you didn’t heal it because?”

“I thought I was fine.”

“That’s a clear misapprehension.”

* * *

Draco watches Potter sprawled on the couch, his fingers ghosting over the remains of the wound at his side. Though they’re pressed against against flesh, Draco can tell they’re shaking.

“Are you cold?”

“M'fine,” His words are slurred as his body starts to shiver. First in his hands and feet, then moving slowly up his arms and legs until his whole body is quaking with cold. “Christ, Malfoy.”

“It’s the blood loss,” he says before casting the strongest Warming Charm he knows. “Let me get you a blanket. If you weren’t so damned stubborn, you’d be in hospital right now.”

The blanket Draco grabs was a gift from his mother, a tiny reminder of home that he’d brought with him when he left. It’s thick Merino wool, soft to the touch and almost painfully warm. When he pulls it out of the cedar chest behind the couch, it shocks him. The pain gives him focus, though, and he tosses it over Potter, breathing in the smell of wool and cedar as it wafts through the room.

“Ts'nice,” Potter mumbles as he crawls deeper under the blanket. “Thanks.”

Draco tucks it around Potter’s body, mouth shut and heart pounding. “You’re welcome.”

Draco makes sure that Potter isn’t going to bleed out on his couch or get too cold in the night. Wandering around his living room, he turns off lights, one after the other, until the room is left in a dim glow from the street and the light from the hallway to Draco’s bedroom. He hovers there, watching the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest under the blanket, and isn’t certain he hears Potter right when he speaks.

“Stay,” Potter says on an exhalation. “Please.”

“You need your rest.”

“Please, Malfoy.” A sigh. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Draco hesitates in the hallway, then walks to his arm chair before settling down.

“Seems rather masochistic of you, Potter,” he says, trying to not feel uneasy in his own home. “I’d think more time in my company would equate to torture.”

“You’re not that bad.” Potter shifts on the couch and sighs as he finds a comfortable position. “Better than a knife in the gut.”

Draco laughs softly, and the room falls silent. It’s a warm silence, enveloping and pleasant like the wool blanket around Potter’s body. Draco draws it closer, warps it around himself, gives into the quiet.

* * *

When Harry wakes up, it’s to unfamiliar hands on his body. Gasping, he strikes out, then curses as his limbs are caught in the strangling grasp of a blanket.

“Fuck, Potter, it’s just me!”

At Malfoy’s familiar—welcoming—voice, Harry stills, then falls back onto the couch with a groan.

“Don’t manhandle me. Christ. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

Malfoy’s mocking scoff is a bit of a relief. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself, you idiot.” He waits for Harry to sit up, then asks, “how’s your side feeling?”

Harry touches it, surprised at how faded the ache has become. “Good.”

The longer Harry sits upright, though, the more his side aches. His head joins it a few minutes later, a pounding throb in his temples that worsens with each heartbeat.

“You should lay down.” Malfoy stands. “Let me get you some water.”

Malfoy’s voice is tinny and buzzing in Harry’s ears, but he shrugs it off. “I’m fine.”

Standing is more difficult than it should be. After only a moment of being on his feet, everything greys at the edges, and he collapses again.

“You’ll be staying in bed, Potter.” Malfoy frowns. “Couch. Whatever it is, you need to rest.”

Malfoy gives Harry a pointed look and finally leaves the room once Harry slumps back down on the couch. He refuses to lay across it any longer, unwilling to show any more weakness.

When Malfoy comes back into the room, he’s holding a glass of water and a dark brown bottle, its label obscured by Malfoy’s hand.

“Replenisher,” Malfoy says as he hands it over, “and there’s some Dittany Essence in there, too. It should get you back to rights.”

“Thank you,” Harry says more out of habit than feeling before he swallows the potion, then gags at the taste.

“Drink some water. It’ll clear the taste out.” Malfoy plucks the empty bottle from Harry’s hand and tucks it into the inner pocket of his robe. “Now, do you want to finally tell me why you were nearly unconscious in an alley with a stab wound, or shall I take you hostage first?”

Horrified, Harry startles and nearly chokes on his mouthful of water. “What?”

“It’s a joke, Potter. Salazar, calm down.” Draco offers him a handkerchief. “Here. You’ve got water down your chin.”

“Thanks.” Harry blots at it, then stares at the monogrammed square in his tightly clenched hand.

* * *

Draco rubs at his eyes, then yawns.

“You all right there, Malfoy?”

“Just tired,” he says with a scowl. “After all, I was up at all hours caring for a stab victim on my couch. One that has been rather tight-lipped about how he received said wound.”

“I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Likely story.”

Potter sighs. “Look, I don’t know who attacked me. He wanted my money, I gave it to him, he still stabbed me. What do you want?”

 _Sleep_ , Draco thinks. His eyes ache. “The truth,” is what he says. “Just the truth from you.”

“I guess I owe you at least that much,” Potter says softly. “For saving me.”

The words hit Draco in the chest like a fist. It’s a concussion of emotion centered behind his breast bone, a shattering blow that leaves him gasping for breath.

“But,” Potter continues, “I really don’t know more than what I told you.”

“Why were you out?”

“I should ask you the same.” His voice holds a smile.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me, either. Nightmares.”

Another blow. “Yes. Always.”

“Of Voldemort and the War, of death.”

“And life.”

Potter frowns. “Why life?”

“Because living is hard, Potter.”

Draco continues. “I’ve read about your life, in the Prophet and the gossip rags. It’s seemed idyllic. Public adoration, friends and family, peace. Do you ever wonder what happened to the losers of the War? What our lives were like?” He smiles, though it holds no joy in it. “My father killed himself, you know. Hung himself from the rafters of the Manor. Mother found him, and it killed her, too. Not immediately, but that’s when it started. It’s a rather harsh world to live in, trapped in a tomb with a still-living corpse, trying to find life for yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Potter croaks out.

“We all are.” Draco sighs, then rubs at his eyes. “I hate being morose first thing in the morning. Coffee?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just retreats to the kitchen. He’s got an old Muggle-style percolator on the hob, and he lights the burner beneath it, watching the flames lick and dance about the soot-stained metal base. They’re jolly, almost friendly, those flames. Nothing like Fiend-Fyre. Nothing like the heat he does his best to bank when he thinks of Potter, of what-might-have-been.

“Malfoy.” The floorboards creak. “Draco.”

Potter’s hand on Draco’s shoulder burns.

* * *

Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing. Of course, he rarely knows what he’s doing, so it shouldn’t put a twist of fear in his gut or ice in his veins, but it does. He’s touching Draco Malfoy, forcing him to turn, drawing him closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says because it feels right. “About your father.”

Draco looks away. “I’m not.”

Harry tries not to flinch at the clear lie. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Minimize it, your pain. He was your father.”

Draco’s laugh is weak. “You’re the injured one here, Potter. not me.”

“We can both be hurt, Draco.”

He’s moving through water. Everything feels slow, like the air is dragging against him, a heavy weight that presses down on every inch of his skin. And even though he feels like he’s drowning, lungs full of water instead of air, Harry can’t help himself from sinking.

“I don’t know why you were the one to find me, but I’m glad you did. I’m glad *you* did. Not someone else.”

“And why’s that?” Draco asks, swallowing after the words leave his mouth, as if he can choke them back down.

“Because you know me.”

“Everyone knows you.”

“Not like you.”

Before he can stop himself, he’s taking Draco’s wrist in his hand. His bones are fragile and light, and his pulse beats like a bird against the cage of Harry’s fingers.

“What’re you doing?” Draco asks, voice more exhale than words.

“Did you ever wonder why it was always us?” Harry draws Draco closer, his grip a restraint that Draco doesn’t try to escape. “My first day at Diagon Alley, and there you were. Then on the train, and in the halls, and on a battlefield. It’s always you and me. Like you know where I’ll be before I’m there.”

Heart pounding hard enough to crack bone, Harry continues. “Why is it always us?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something shatters in his chest. “I think you do.”

Draco’s eyes dart to Harry’s lips, then back to his eyes. “What are you trying to say, Potter?”

“I’m saying we’re inevitable. That you’ll find me wherever I go, and I’ll do the same. I can’t help it.”

Harry pulls on Draco one last time, and he stumbles forward, catching himself against Harry’s chest. Letting go of Draco’s wrist, Harry puts his hand against Draco’s chin and neck, tilting his face up.

* * *

Draco doesn’t expect Potter’s lips to be soft, but they are. They’re soft and warm and cajoling, teasing Draco’s mouth to open on a stunned inhale. As if it draws Potter forward, he steps closer, kisses deeper, and Draco’s eyes fall shut, lost as he slips into the mindless haze of desire that’s sweeping over him.

They kiss, Potter’s fingers tangled in Draco’s hair, Draco’s hands locked into the hem of Potter’s shirt. When they part, they’re both breathing hard, and Draco’s legs feel weak and unsteady.

Potter tugs at his hand, and Draco stumbles after.

“I can’t bloody walk.”

Potter laughs and draws Draco closer. “You’re fine.”

“I’m ill, Potter. Dying, even.”

Potter kisses him again, and now Draco’s certain of it. This has to be some kind of death. Everything is narrowed in focus, condensed down to the heat of Potter’s hands, the rush of his breath against Draco’s lips, the feel of his body pressed against Potter’s. Draco can’t tell if his heart is beating so hard it’ll fly out of his body, or if it’ll stop from the exertion. It’s too much and yet not enough at the same time, and all he wants is more.

Hesitant hands tease at the hem of his shirt, and Draco shivers at the touch.

“How do you feel now?” Potter asks against Draco’s mouth.

He’s on fire. He’s drowning. He’s shaking apart. “Fine.”

Potter laughs, and Draco sips it from his mouth like nectar. “ _Fine_ , he says.” Potter trails his lips to the curve of Draco’s jaw, then the dip behind his ear. “I’d like you to feel more than fine.”

“I should be asking you the same,” Draco says on a gasp. “You were stabbed.”

“And duly cared for.” Harry’s hands slip under Draco’s shirt and touch skin.

It takes him a moment, Harry’s hands on Draco’s sides and lower back distracting in the best of ways, for Draco to push them away. Harry makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat, but Draco hums quietly before squeezing Harry’s hands and holding them to Draco’s chest.

“Please,” he whispers into Harry’s knuckles, “let me take care of you.”

Sighing, Harry squeezes Draco’s hands back. “Okay.”

He settles on the couch, lets Draco tuck him in with the blanket, sighs when Draco’s runs his fingers through Harry’s hair.

“Inevitable?” Draco asks as Harry dozes. “Are you sure?”

Draco runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, watching as he drifts to sleep, Draco’s question unanswered.

“Inevitable. Inescapable. Where you go, I follow. There wasn’t any other option but us to have this showdown, was there, Harry?” He leans down and kisses Harry’s unruly hair. The man stirs a little under the touch, murmuring something that sounds like Draco’s name. “We’ll talk later. Rest.”

“You, too,” Harry says, his arm snaking around Draco’s waist and pulling him close. With a quiet laugh, Draco lets himself be drawn.

“Shove over,” he says as he slides in next to Harry. “And sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a bit longer to post this than I meant, but I blame all of the nonsense happening in American politics for distracting me.


End file.
